


scribblings and scraps

by darksylvir



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Freeform, Multi, Multiple AUs and Crossovers, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darksylvir/pseuds/darksylvir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Tumblr drabbles and request fills for [k]. Mostly Mikorei, but other pairings make appearances. Tags subject to change and random proliferation.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding Fails - Mikorei

**Author's Note:**

> Stupid fluffy wedding!au that no one asked for xD
> 
> Additional Pairings: IzuSeri, lowkey Fushimi x Everyone

It wasn’t what it looked like.

Just, okay, _one_ , the service was taking forever and the priest had one of those voices like a white-noise machine. _Two_ , Mikoto was running on max two hours of sleep because Anna’d been too hyped to go to bed and then Yata too hungover to drive to McDonald’s at the ass-crack of dawn to pick up a scrambled breakfast order. Cravings, Awashima said. She was getting married, not popping out a goddamn kid, but–well, you didn’t argue with the bride on her big day, apparently.

So, yeah, there were reasons why one minute, he’d been counting sections of stained glass window to stay awake and damn those things went pretty high up, and the ceiling went up even higher what the  _hell–_

And then he wasn’t looking up at the rafters, but at the stupidly pretty and mildly worried face of Munakata Reisi. Kinda on the right side of fucking gorgeous, this close–the way his eyes picked up all the colors behind those stuffy lenses, like what those windows were trying to do, but better.

–wait, _what._

“Mikoto– _oof._ ” Yata’s shout became a hiss, probably courtesy of Fushimi’s elbow, but kept the exclamation points. “Mikoto-san are you _okay?!”_

 _It’s too damn hot_. Could’ve been the summer wedding in a beautiful but crappily-ventilated cathedral, but his gut was telling him different, something to do with the surprisingly firm hold around his shoulders, or how he felt every little shift the other man made even through a dozen or so layers of starched formalwear, or how his lips parted ever so slightly to say–

“It appears that the best man has merely succumbed to a rather ill-timed fainting spell.” The barest hint of a laugh behind the words, and Mikoto suddenly recovered the urge to punch him in the throat, if not the physical will to follow through. “A few minutes of rest should be enough, oh, and a bottle of water, if you would, Totsuka-san.”

“Right! Sorry for the interruption everyone, but if any of you wonderful guests has an unopened beverage on hand, that would be such a huge help, and then we can get right on with these lovely nuptials!”

The silent pews came to life with a low murmur as the co-best man-turned-wedding-planner-turned-videographer whipped them into action somewhere out of Mikoto’s line of sight. From his left came a familiar groaning sigh.

“I cannot believe you fainted at my _wedding_.”

He turned his head too quickly, but the weird wash of lightheadedness probably served whatever dignity he had left better than looking up at Munakata’s smug (still  _ungodly attractive_ ) face. Izumo stared gravely down at him, bangs struggling out of mounds of hair gel, while Awashima’s look echoed her soon-to-be husband’s words with an added level of mortification– _I cannot believe you fainted on my boss._

Her fault, entirely. Who the hell makes their commanding officer part of the wedding party? But law enforcement types had weird sorts of bonds, something he’d learned in the five years Izumo and Awashima were doing their agonizingly slow dance around each other. Not like he could comment on it anyways, his own friendships being what they were.

Totsuka’s beaming face bounced into view. “Here we go, King! Good thing Munakata-san’s got quick reflexes–I thought for sure you’d get a concussion, droppin’ like that.”

He swore he could feel the low chuckle against his shoulder, as he was eased up gently in time for Totsuka to shove a plastic bottle into his lip with way too much eagerness.

“My pleasure to be of service.”

It was the crazy angle that the blonde tipped the water that made him choke, definitely not that odd, purring inflection. He coughed, batted the rest away. “M’fine already.”

He’d prove it by standing, if only the grip on his arm didn’t tighten the moment he tried to. Munakata had the audacity to try and look concerned, and somewhere behind his ribs had the audacity to stutter. “I would that you be less impulsive, Suoh-san. A repeat performance would surely put a further damper on Awashima-kun’s special day.”

Turned her right back into a blushing bride, he could practically feel it radiating off her, and Izumo too, by extension. So he grit his teeth and let himself be guided up like the delicate fucking flower he’d never been in the entirety of his life and sure as hell would never be again. Took Munakata too long to realize that, the way his hands lingered even after Mikoto got his bearing and then some.

It was a relief when he finally stepped back into his place in the line of groomsmen. Definitely.

“Are we quite ready to continue?” The priest’s tone hadn’t changed in the least–could probably give Fushimi a run in the no-fucks-to-give department.

Izumo shot him a long side-eye, like he wasn’t the one who chose Mikoto as best man with full knowledge of potential consequences. “You good?”

He nodded, and the ceremony picked up its painful crawl. Easier to keep awake, at least–wouldn’t want to upset his best friend on arguably the greatest day of his life, not more than he already had.

Nothing to do with the cool violet gaze on the back of his neck. Not at all.

\---

Rest of it went off without a hitch. Made it through the vows, the kiss, the endless pictures, and only lost a handful of cars on the way to the reception tent. Mikoto had done his speech too short, but then Totsuka’s had been a rambling mess so between them they’d had one solid performance.

Fushimi ate about a quarter of his ridiculously expensive dinner selection, even under Yata’s combo of threats and pleading, then dumped the rest across Mikoto’s plate with his trademark tongue click. “So you don’t ruin the party, too.”

He’d made it this far without falling over so there wasn’t any real reason for concern, but then again he’d seen the total catering bill and it would be a crime to waste any of it. So he dug in as Yata launched into a lecture on how the stupid monkey was going to be the next one passing out if he didn’t eat anything and no the table mints did not count.

Definitely not seeing the look passed in between Munakata and, according to Awashima, his favorite intel officer. Just that creepy bond thing, probably.

“Alright, let’s get this party started!”

That was another one of Awashima’s colleagues, the loud carrot-top, commandeering the DJ booth. What followed was a musical free-for-all, helped along immensely by the arrival of the open bar. Izumo and Awashima had their magical first dance to the tune of the latest club banger thanks to the playlist being a clusterfuck, and if that didn’t overshadow the whole fainting thing, well–

He still decided to drown the memory in alcohol, because he’d seen the bill for that too.

Blurred, from that point on. One spin with Anna on the dance floor, why not. Maybe Awashima, too, for tradition. Cake wheeled in, big and white and rose-y and he should definitely not be anywhere near it. Taking Izumo’s shots at various tables, because his friend wanted to remember his wedding night and Mikoto had the exact opposite goal. They balanced each other like that, always had. Awashima did it too, which is why they fit. Like puzzle pieces.

He hoped that’d been in his speech. He’d heard the last part, for sure. Not so sure if he was the one who’d said it.

Didn’t really matter, anyways, not with the night air on his face and the party carrying on at his back, waiting for the world to slow its tilt to a more manageable level. Sure as hell didn’t want to pass out again, not with–

“How fortuitous that the weather remains agreeable this far into the festivities,” said Munakata, breezily, somewhere by his left shoulder. “I find that weddings are often a lure for inclement conditions, though I am pleased that my predictions are incorrect in this particular instance.”

He turned. “You use a lot of words for a cop.”

Had his fair share of drinks as well, judging by the flush on his perfect (shots talking, talking _loud_ ) cheekbones. No trace of it in his posture though, the easy way he balanced a slice of wedding cake on his palm. “I have been told. It is a habit I have little intention of breaking.” He pulled a spoon out from somewhere, cut off a chunk of icing and held it out before Mikoto could blink. “The ratio of solid food you’ve ingested to the amount of liquor you’ve imbibed is distressingly low. As a member of the wedding party responsible for Awashima-kun’s happiness, I cannot in good faith allow the best man to sink into drunken debauchery unchecked.”

 _Already had cake_ , he wanted to say, only he couldn’t remember what it tasted like and its cost was yet another insane number engraved into his mind. So yeah, why not take a bite. Vanilla, butter, a touch of rum, something smoky and–”Too sweet.”

Munakata hummed, carved out another spoonful. “At least low blood sugar shall not be your undoing, then.”

“Wasn’t that. Stop feeding me.”

“Forgive me if I am not swayed by the reasoning of a thoroughly inebriated–” He frowned as the next offering missed its mark, plastic clipping against the corner of Mikoto’s mouth and leaving a smear of cream. “Though, admittedly, I may be a touch tipsy myself.”

“And you an upstanding officer of the law, too.” Felt right, to flick his tongue out and swipe up the mess edging the curl of his smirk. Worth it, too–ninety percent sure that deepening blush didn’t have shit to do with alcohol. Point to him.

“My level of intoxication is hardly enough to compromise my moral standing, whereas you have just proven that yours is but the beginning of a long downward spiral into licentiousness.” Punctuated by yet another bite arrowing toward his face. “Spare me your judgments and focus on regaining your sobriety lest I be forced to make a pre-emptive arrest.”

There were worse ways to spend the next few minutes than being force fed cake by his best friend’s new wife’s mouthy-but-hot captain–yeah, it was ten kinds of surreal, but he was getting food and a view. Alternative was being in that mad throng forming on the dance floor as Awashima prepared to throw her (also stupid expensive) bouquet.

Nah, this was fine.

“Bet you can’t even make arrests off-duty. No handcuffs.”

“I assure you that everyone in my unit including myself is more than prepared, whether we happen to be in uniform or out of it.”

“…you saying you do got cuffs on you?”

“I struggle to understand your keenness regarding the possibility.”

Awashima hurled the flowers over her head like she was lobbing a live grenade, almost as if to prove her commander’s point. They arced cleanly over everyone actually trying for the catch, and landed neatly on Fushimi’s lap. Mikoto could hear the tongue click from across the room.

“My, this entire evening is generating a delightful amount of unlikely events.”

“She’s got an arm on her.”

Any attempt to pass the bouquet off ended on a sour note, as all the girls claimed the good luck had run out anyways. Or maybe they just wanted to see what would happen when it was Izumo’s turn to pitch the garter–which turned out to be an alarming number of Munakata’s unit taking the floor, ranging from that stoic guy with the bangs to the blonde, spectacled girl who’d been Awashima’s emergency addition to the bridal party. Another brunet was caught up in a furious war of elbows with Yata on the front line.

“Sure you don’t wanna go help him outta that trainwreck?”

“Fushimi-kun is more than capable of taking care of himself. My civic duty is much better served here.”

“That so?”

“Until I am quite assured there will not be another swooning episode or worse.”

“Passed out, that was it. There was no swoon.”

“I am rather impressed you distinguish between the two.”

Izumo executed some flashy twirly throw reminiscent of his bartending days. The floor exploded in flailing limbs and several advanced tactical maneuvers that Mikoto was pretty sure the SWAT team weren’t supposed to use outside a sting. Maybe it was a good thing that Munakata had his pretty eyes on him. Or maybe he’d be totally cool with it. Awashima’d often commented her boss was perfectly capable of balancing completely opposite reactions at once.

Made him wonder, a little, what was happening here.

“Thanks, by the way.”

“Hm?”

“For earlier. And now, too, I guess.”

Still no clear victor in the dogpile–no, wait, there was Yata, or at least his arm, clutching the lace band tightly until it dawned on him exactly what he was holding and how close it had been quite recently to Awashima’s _thigh_ , and then all it took was a tackle from blondie to send it airborne again–right past a dozen grasping fingers–and over to another side table where the catty bridesmaid plucked it easily out of the air and gleefully tried to jam it over her neighbor’s silver hair like a crown.

What the actual fuck.

“Well, it certainly was not how I would’ve intended to have you in my arms.”

What the _actual fuck._

Munakata’s face mirrored back the shock, like he hadn’t just said–but damage control was his specialty so it took one beat before he was dropping the spoon on the empty plate and turning on his heel. “Excuse me, I fear the liquor was much more potent than I’d expected and I must–”

Probably shouldn’t reach out and grab the commander of a SWAT team, but the shots were picking a hell of a time to turn to liquid courage and/or stupidity so Mikoto did in anyway. And as luck would have it–or whatever higher power was having a field day on this disaster of a wedding–Munakata’s deadly reflexes were dulled enough for the grab to turn to a pull to turn to a–

Well, what Mikoto’d been sort of dying to do since Munakata Reisi was first introduced into the wedding party.

And the way the way that quick mouth opened against his with a sigh, hell, maybe he hadn’t been the only one.

“Oh thank god.” That was Fushimi’s voice, carrying clear through the din. Needed to breathe, anyways, so Mikoto pulled back, looked up to see the young officer pinned down in a chair by well-meaning bridesmaids. Neko poised on all-fours in front of him, glancing curiously at them over her shoulder, garter dangling from her lips. “Make them do it instead.”

Not a fucking chance. Mikoto looked down at Munakata, realized just how heavily the slim body was leaning against him, how the misty daze lingered in his eyes. He grinned. “Now that’s swooning.”

That brought him back, the grip on his lapels tightening, even as those inviting lips curved into a smile. “I should have dropped you.”

“Maybe,” Mikoto replied, and leaned back in, while in the background Izumo and Awashima issued their first joint complaint as a married couple.

“Really, at _our wedding?!”_


	2. The Force Awakens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars!au from someone who has only a vague grasp on that particular universe, but fell hard and fast for The Force Awakens...
> 
> Pairings: Mostly gen, but hints of Mikorei

Because this galaxy is vast, it stands to reason that this story, this battle of light and dark is not the only one of its kind.

Munakata Reisi is part of the First Order’s High Command. Not as gifted or favored as some, perhaps, but still Force-sensitive enough to garner the vague interest of the Supreme Leader, to maintain command of a sizable outpost in the Order’s galactic holdings.

Awashima serves as the stormtrooper Captain at his right hand, maintaining a command and discipline over her soldiers that some say rivals that of the fearsome Captain Phasma.

Lt. Fushimi has risen quickly through the ranks, a brilliant strategist and one of the few who can keep up with and complement the commander’s tactical expertise. Lt. Fushimi, who in truth is a deep cover spy for the Resistance, feeding them information and waiting for the moment to carry out his final objective.

(Lt. Fushimi, who is starting to doubt that Commander Munakata is yet another indoctrinated fanatic of the First Order’s twisted propaganda. It’s there, of course–all that crap about restoring order to a chaotic, lawless galaxy–but something about him, something about how truly he believes it, and yet–

Something about how there’s no way someone like Munakata should’ve let him get this far, this close, and yet here he is. Something about how there’s a familiarity in his eyes, n his manner that Fushimi recognizes almost intimately–something he’s had to learn, to take this mission, how to walk a line just between where they can see you and where they can’t. Something–

Nevermind. He has his orders.)

There’s a weapon, of course. There always is. Some remnant, fished off a backwater planet in the dead of its night. Fushimi still can’t clear up what exactly it is, only knows it’s important to all the wrong people. This he sends down the line, and waits.

\---

Suoh Mikoto does not care about any of this. The smuggler/bounty hunter/gun-for-hire has a ship to run (Izumo runs it, really–he’s better at the mechanical stuff, being part bolts, and the commanding, being all asshole) and jobs that need doing. Yeah, the galaxy’s going to hell, but it was well on its way before he was even born and will keep right on after he’s dead, so it’s really nothing to do with him long as he and his crew stay well out of the whole political clusterfuck.

Totsuka, unfortunately, does care. A lot.

Suoh should’ve seen it coming. Izumo did, but thought, hey, maybe Totsuka’d outgrow those reckless impulses he called “the right thing to do”. Maybe he wouldn’t get that deeply involved in the Resistance. Maybe he wouldn’t run off and volunteer himself for what was supposed to be some simple reconnaissance work. Maybe he wouldn’t be caught. Maybe he wouldn’t be counting down his last days in the cells of a First Order stronghold, being tortured for information he doesn’t have for a cause that _isn’t even theirs._

But Totsuka is. So they’re getting him back. 

Yeah, they’re up against an army. Yeah, it’s pretty much a death wish. Yeah, even if they do succeed, they’ll be on the wanted list of one of the big players in the galactic war they’d wanted to stay far the hell away from. Yeah.

The things you do for family.

\---

It’s not a weapon. It’s a girl.

Totsuka won’t leave her behind. Something to do with her and that Force bullshit that Suoh’s never wasted much time on. She don’t look like much of a user, if that’s the case, just some underfed kid with creepy eyes–but Totsuka insists and there’s no time to argue.

Shouldn’t have given in. Might’ve just gotten away, if it’d been only them.

Now, well, now there’s a guy standing in between them and their ticket out of here. One guy, and normally Suoh’d write off that pretty face and that prissy posture, but he knows enough to recognize the uniform, and the saber that hums slow and red in his hand.

“That young lady is a very important guest at this facility. Should you stand down and allow us to escort her back to her chambers, I shall ensure that your executions be quick and humane in the full spirit of this base’s martial law.”

Suoh’s got a blaster, some baton he picked up off a guard, and the rough hand-to-hand he’s put together on planets the wrong side of shady, and still all that’s next to nothing against someone like that. Hell if he’s gonna go down quiet, though. “Law’s not really something I take to, unfortunately.”

Lightning sparks between the guy’s fingers. Just gets better and better. “Quite a pity, then.”

Suoh’s a fast draw, but he’s heard of these Force guys stopping blaster shots and every other sort of crazy. But that kid just behind the guy, one of his–his finger’s tight on the trigger aimed at them, but there’s something in the eyes, something in the way the shot's angled that makes him think–

Fuck it.

Suoh fires.

Force guy lunges.

The girl screams.

_\--_

_There has been an awakening, have you felt it?_

\--

What little command Munakata has of the Force has always come to him quite easily. He does not merit himself a prodigy of any kind, simply an individual attuned to the necessities of control. The body, the mind, impulses and thoughts–all are subject to the precise application of his will. Channeling the Force is no different.

Until now. Until this.

His opponent has no idea what he is doing. He cannot–he has only had awareness of his abilities from the inception of this ridiculous duel. Brawl, actually, would be the more appropriate designation, utterly lacking in strategy or finesse or–

He forces back a wall of flame, leaving more molten scorches along the walls. Everything around them burns. Pyrokinesis. What a delightful inclination.

“Beginning to wonder if you’re actually trying to kill me,” the man says in his insufferable drawl. Munakata’s grip on his saber tightens in an incremental twitch, and he forces himself to remember the novice breathing exercises he has never needed before.

“This complex has been due for a technical upgrade.” Maddening, how he is being countered with a mere riot baton _._ Infuriating, how well they are matched. “Perhaps I am saving myself the trouble of screening contractors.”

He actually _laughs._  The audacity. Overconfident in attack, no concept of defense–a pattern that should be easy to outmaneuver, and still there’s an element of easy expectancy when they end up too close on the edge of the narrow skybridge.

(There are far too many of these impractical structures. He’ll make a note of it for the repairs.)

“You’re pretty good there, High Command.” Smirking, as if there is not a plasma blade straining mere inches away from his face. And for some reason, Munakata feels himself return it.

“Commander Munakata Reisi, of the First Order, if you would.” A deadlock, a standstill, a Force that does not bend to him–and from a nameless commoner, no less. Inconceivable. 

( _Fascinating.)_

“Good to know.” The flames lick higher. “Suoh Mikoto.”

Perhaps not so nameless after all. “Leader of the HOMRA Faction.”

“Shit, thought you Order guys stayed out of the black markets.”

“Well it is rather hard to ignore the fact that the so-titled ‘Scourge of the Rakshasa System’ runs operations in our territory, with some frequency.”

“Guess we gotta get more choosy with our jobs then.”

“I do not foresee that being an issue. There is little need for credits from beyond the grave.”

Crackling static sounds from Suoh’s earpiece, and Munakata has time to catch his expression change just so. “True enough.”

He shoves, suddenly, with a power that should be beyond him. Munakata feels the air hold him, the space of a breath, and then it rushes down, roaring against his ears as he falls.

\---

They make it out, somehow. Izumo pulls every fancy trick in the book to cover up their escape route, but Suoh doubts anyone’s following. Same way he doubts the last he’ll see of Munakata Reisi is a black cloak fluttering down into a smoky fog.

He still can’t shake the image, which is odd. Not like it’s the first time he’s killed someone. But maybe it’s because he’s pretty sure he didn’t. Yeah, that’s it. Unfinished business.

Totsuka makes them land on some Resistance base, take care of the girl. Anna. For the best–HOMRA isn’t the place for a kid like her. She’s special. The big bosses call her a second coming, something about some high count she’s got, Force-sensitivity off the charts. The fact that she somehow gave it to him, too.

Oh, right, there’s the other thing.

“Can’t go back to how it was now.” Izumo sighs, glares like it’s his fault he’s suddenly got legendary mystical powers. “Not till you get that under control, and even then–”

Now a glare to Totsuka, who throws up his hands and smiles the same even behind a black eye and bruises. He did the right thing. He’s happy. Anna’s attached to him at the hip, too–maybe because he’s the only one not treating her like a savior or a specimen.

Guess they’re stuck here, then, hopping from base to base and dodging Order scouts. Apparently there’s another division working on finding some old Jedi Master, someone who can sort them out, at least. Good for Anna, but Suoh still remembers snatches of history and legend, and he’s pretty sure that particular Path is the last thing he’s suited for.

But maybe if it gives him what he needs to beat _(find)_  Munakata Reisi, well–

He could stand to give it a go.

\---

The Supreme Leader is displeased, to say the least. The girl was to have been an asset. Seeing her power at work, Munakata is now well aware of the exact reasons why.

Reasons, he would argue, that, had they been clarified at the start of the endeavor, might have led to a wholly different set of precautions being taken. Their compound was built for the containment of standard prisoners, which was what he’d been led to believe they were securing. Lt. Fushimi could not possibly be expected to halt such an individual in a one-on-one confrontation, just as he had not been prepared to undertake a duel with an incredibly gifted if untrained Force user. Let alone two.

They are all valid justifications. He measures how they fall off his tongue, tempers them with the proper notes of regret, objectivity, cool sincerity. It is not the first time he has stood in this place, and it will not be the last.

It is posited that he undergo further training, if his skills alone were not enough to overcome one newly-awoken novice. He smiles, thin and just wounded enough. “As the Supreme Leader is well aware, there is little to be done about the breadth of my ability.”

This is true. It will do. A black mark, of course, but theirs is but a small branch of the Order, and he nothing more than a pawn in its higher rankings. Other more powerful pieces are in play. Still, they will be watching now.

Closely.

Good. Munakata has been expecting it.

Here, alone in his chambers, he checks his walls, physical and mental. He has spent countless years refining them, strengthening them, all in service for a moment such as this. He was not sure when it would come, nor the form it would take, but proper foresight and preparedness have always been points of pride for him. A quality that serves well–they stand true, firm. Impenetrable.

Here, in the still of his fortress, he draws his blade. It glows dull, heavy crimson. With a smile, he draws back the will that drowns its core, and breathes.

Light floods the darkness. A brilliant, steady blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	3. things you said in the grass, beneath the stars - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated S for sap xD Also, please do not attempt this date idea at home ;D

“It is said,” Munakata intones, waving a hand loftily across the expanse of sky, “The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars.”

Strikes an oddly familiar chord, that, and a moment for his brain to connect it. Mikoto snorts. “Or they’re just balls of gas burning millions of miles away.”

He turns his head, feels the prickling shift of the long grass beneath the spread of his jacket. Munakata’s still got his eyes on the night, mapping out the dim patches where the city lights can’t quite reach. “Plasma, actually–shall I update the Red King’s file to include his fondness for Disney classics?”

“Anna watches it least every week, some reason. The lines stick.” Breezy night, gets caught up in rushes and those dark strands of hair. Mikoto’s hand twitches. “What’s your excuse?”

“Only a conventional childhood, hard-pressed though you may be to believe it.” The fact that he hasn’t looked over is starting to grate, for some reason. “Besides, it seemed appropriate given the ludicrous nature of this situation.”

“Said you wanted to get back to nature.”

“There are no shortage of public parks in Shizume that are designed to fulfill that particular intention, I assure you.”

“Maybe, but they ain’t got this.”

It’s true. Not the kind of sprawl you get outside the city limits, no–still smoggy, battered with light, but at least you can make out stars. Small crowds, ragtag and defiant. Blue King seems to appreciate their effort, same way Mikoto finds himself appreciating the long lines of distraction that cut his jaw and neck stark against the shadowy brush.

Something rustles by, a little ways above their heads. Munakata’s mouth quirks. “I am still not completely positive this is worth being mauled over.”

“Won’t happen.” At least, he’s pretty sure. “I’ve been here enough.”

This earns him a sideways glance. “You mean to tell me that you regularly make after-hours trespasses upon the zoo’s lion enclosure in flagrant disregard of both common sense and legal ramification?”

Probably shouldn’t answer that. He shrugs. “Little late to complain.”

The soft laugh is warmer than the wind that carries it, seeps down deep and spreads. “Perhaps I can see why Miss Anna has such a fondness for that particular title.”

“Yeah?”

“A certain parallel of denying one’s crown comes to mind.” There’s a glint in his eyes, half starlight and half unrepentant asshole. “Though it seems wild beasts do a better job following through on their responsibilities than _certain_ individuals I could name.”

Always has this sideways way of asking for it, but it works–Mikoto’s braced over him before he’s finished the thought, grass snapping under his palms, the scuff of his knees. “Seem to recall he needed some convincing.”

“Oh?” No right to look that smug, in his position, but he’s doing it. “And how did that line go again?” The touch against his neck is cool, but the flash fire it sparks bows him lower. “ _Why won’t he be the king I know he is, the king I see inside?_ ”

Chuckle comes out more like a growl. “No way you remember that from elementary.”

“Mm, well.” They’re so close Mikoto almost feels the smile. “Perhaps I share Miss Anna’s taste in favorites.”

One tug closes the gap. Wind dies down, and a curious lion bats at the odd, glittering wall that scythes up along the grass line, before padding off to join the rest of its pride gathering about the rocks. They keep to themselves for some time. Kings understand kings, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	4. things you said at the kitchen table - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an excuse to write in the survival game!au I'm much too fond of...also, TW for blood and description of minor surgery

_This was someone’s kitchen table._ It is not an intrusive thought, exactly. Reisi’s hands are steady, saline-slicked as they are, firm in purpose--but the words loop, curiously, somewhere at the edge of focus. _This was someone’s kitchen table._

A family, perhaps. Homework done here, meals eaten, heads bowed to prayer. Here, where his own head is bent under bare-bulb light. Here, where he hooks the needle through epidermis, dermis, and pulls. Hooks again, dermis, epidermis, and pulls. Loop twice for first throw. Pull--the arm spasms under his grip, he has to readjust--and knot. Left-right, right-left, left-right. Cut.

Twelve sutures. Only a third of the gash is closed. This will not be a quick affair.

Across the table--it is a small table, intimate, unsuitable for a family, on second thought--Suoh Mikoto makes a sound more suited to the throats of beasts. The leather length of that ridiculous keepsake is clenched hard between his teeth. His hair has fallen into his eyes--it makes him look far too young.

Reisi drops his eyes, palms the needle. “Tell me, again.”

That metal pendant clatters heavily onto the blond linoleum. “What?”

“The names, the habits, idiosyncrasies--whatever you recall.” Reisi feels another shudder as stitch bites deep. “Your reasons.” A sudden tension warps the knots, and he finds himself cursing the imprecision of his words. “Media’s Eyes are blind here, I have this confirmed. It is only us, and you need a distraction or I cannot--”

“Izumo. Kusanagi--Izumo.” The rasp becomes human enough for the space of it, and Reisi can trace inflections of affection beneath the pain. “Shared blood. We were-- _fuck" --slipped stitch, damn--"_ thirteen. Four years--served the line. Smokes a pack every two days. Blue Spark, from the capital.” It is the first time he hears the other's attempt at a laugh. “Expensive fucking taste. _Shit--_ I swear you’re--”

“I am doing what is necessary as quickly as I dare to.” He does not not have the luxury of pondering how to convey sincerity. The next anchor point is set just past the halfway mark. The patient will have to trust him. “There was another.”

“Yeah. Totsuka. Totsuka’s--after.” Reisi vaguely notes the curl of his fist against the tabletop. “Accident. Always an accident--with him. Got hell for--taking him in. Hah.” He is the type to lean into pain--distracting, the sharp breaths glancing over his skin. “Good hands. Good eyes. Made the shot--dead center, hundred yards. Wouldn’t do it again and-- _ngh_.” Too taut. “Probably better hand at this.”

The temptation to gouge through with a bit less sympathy is more than a passing fancy--Reisi registers the fatigue in his joints building to stiffness with each careful repetition. But they are close, and it is beneath him to delight in suffering. “I rather doubt you would have him here in my stead, regardless. Keep talking, Suoh--it is not an opportunity I will offer again.”

“Heh, with your fucking mouth, I bet.” It is the strain, nothing more, that imparts a crude flush on that particular wording. “Anna. Ten years. Behind her. Once she--she traded six packs from Izumo’s stash, for flowers. Red.” Only three or four to finish, depending on how he rations the thread. His hands are still steady--he wills it so. “They’d die. Everything dies. But she--keeps them going. I don’t know--how. Anna. Kushina. A higher name, isn’t it? And she’s--”

“It is done.”

It will not do to show weakness, of any sort, so Reisi forces his fingers not to claw, to cleanse and bandage and strip off the gloves without shaking. Thirty sutures. He has never had to do so many--not when it had truly mattered, in any case. Suoh’s face is still eaten gaunt with the aftershocks; the filmy light does it no favors. They have about fifteen minutes until the Eyes will find them, before that pain is projected and the odds shifted in accordance.

“This cannot happen again,” Reisi says. Whatever fire perpetuating itself through his partner’s veins has not flickered out, at least. Those eyes are almost gold with it, alight in the cramped shade. “It was a foolish move, going after another Mark on your own. Tactics will be--difficult, now.”

“Tough shit.” His gaze is steady, when nothing else is. “You needed a weapon.”

Reisi is aware of the gun, suddenly, a leaden weight tucked against his hip. He will not show it. “Need I remind you that my Division specialization is medical. I have little training when it comes to firearms.”

“Better than nothing,” is the careless reply. Suoh leans back in his chair, looks to fall asleep as if those tense moments before were nothing but a minor inconvenience. “You’re the one with the plan, Division 4, so you’ve got to make it one way or another. Makes dying hell of a lot easier, knowing that.”

“Do not spew those fatalistic assumptions with that serene look on your face, Suoh Mikoto of the HOMRA District.” The words leave a burning taste, and Reisi cannot fathom why. “Kusanagi Izumo. Totsuka Tatara. Kushina Anna. I will ensure that you are returned to them. Alive.”

Suoh cracks one eye open, twists his mouth into a grin. “I could almost believe you, Munakata Reisi, you sell it like that.”

 

\--

 

_"...like that."_

 

The shot flickers onto a thousand screens, backdrop to the endless scroll of statistics. Cold numbers.  _ED4: R. Munakata Status: Alive, Prime. MD3H: M. Suoh Status: Alive, D: Physical. Update Projection, Simplified -- 18:1. Expand for detail. Expand for Individual. Expand for next-- Please submit all parcels and credit wagers by Centralized Hour 1200 to ensure processing -- Please submit --_

 

Each day, Anna drops a sealed flower down the Lines. Izumo says they never make it. The transport is too rough.

 

She does it anyways. Today, she spares two. They'll make it.

 

One must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	5. things you said with too many miles between us - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author fails at seducing people and so, by extension, Suoh does too xD

It’s when the call connects halfway through the first ring, that Mikoto realizes he’d probably hit the wrong contact--no one else is that freakishly quick except for--“Now this is a rare overture--I almost hesitate to ask what necessitates the Red King to requisition my personal line?”

Jet lag won’t quit. Culture shock. At least two bottles of Dom-whatever. The shitty way Izumo’d arranged the names on this week’s burner. But what his mouth manages is, “Hey.”

Might be dragging that last vowel too long, setting up wrong ideas. On the other end there’s silence, for once. A plus. Mikoto leans back against the balcony railing, tips his head up to the spotlights sweeping over the dusty Vegas sky. Ten seconds till the dial tone, probably. Longer, he’ll count it as some kind of win.

“Remarkable.” Distance does one hell of a number--he could almost think the voice is amused. “Are you at all aware of the exorbitant carrier costs you are incurring just to assure me that your decisions remain questionable regardless of which city you happen to inhabit?”

Grinning. Can’t help it. “Half the ones you’re paying to cram all those words in--hanging up’s cheaper.” Not that he wants him too--and there’s another sign he’s too buzzed for this--but it has to be said. Keeps things straight. “How’d you know?”

“I would that your second-in-command be a touch more considerate with the timing of his information requests.” So, that’s what Izumo’s been up to. “Surely he has some awareness of the difference in time zones. Accommodating as she is, I do not wish Awashima-kun to overtire herself.”

There is that--around 2AM here, means Shizume’s about 6ish. And he’d come back early, too, looking in on Anna, Totsuka. Who knew when the rest of ‘em would stagger through the suite doors, drag all that noise and light and trouble along with them. “Got his reasons, business to take care of.” He thinks he hears the faint, familiar click of a lighter. “Heard things are going down on your end. Here I thought I’d give you a breather, flying out.”

The chuckle lets him know he’s smoking--little else loosens him up enough. “How gracious of you.” Tone's gotten lighter, too. “I suppose it was too much to hope international media would keep to more pertinent events. Were you perhaps concerned?”

“Ain’t like someone to get the drop on you, Blue King Munakata Reisi.” Okay, there’s an edge on the title, but not like the miles have made either of them soft.

“Hardly. In fact, the boldness is somewhat admirable--it is not often war is declared through a love letter.”

Sudden vertigo knocks him blank for a sec, drops his eyes to see his shock reflected on the sliding glass. “What.”

“A somewhat trite inscription: ’I love you so very much’. One would think a man who can orchestrate such a thorough attack on Scepter 4’s very foundations in pursuit of my crown would be more inventive in his diction.” A sigh. “Though I admit the directness would not be out of character.”

“Oi.” It’s the wind, desert dry and weighed hot with the sticky press of the city. The wind, spiking the fire in his skin. “Gonna leave me a lot more to burn, you don’t wrap this up.”

Long exhale--Mikoto can almost taste the smoke. When he speaks again, that old arrogance hones itself into every word. “As if I would stoop to involving the Red King in my battles. Rest assured, I will have this matter well in hand by the time you bother returning to blacken Shizume with your presence.”

Goes over like a bucket of ice water. Not quite unpleasant, but doesn’t do much to string on the conversation. Instead he’s got the drags whispering through like static, and still neither of them are hanging up. Izumo’s gonna flip over the bill--like he actually pays it.

“Whole thing got you smoking on duty?” he asks, finally, lamely. Not enough alcohol left to blame it on.

“I happen to be on break for a time, on Awashima-kun’s insistence.” Another drag. “Enough to retreat to my personal quarters, indulge in a few moments of vice.”

There’s a rustling noise, like something’s being undone. Why Mikoto’s mind goes there is--fuck. “That what this is?”

“Perhaps.” Doesn’t sound like it’s on purpose, the agreement or how the words have gone loose again. “Though it occurs to me, isn’t it rather late for you, Suoh Mikoto?”

His own name, jumping under his skin like a live wire. Good thing Munakata can’t see what he’s doing with that--can’t see his fingers skimming along where his shirt rides up with the breeze, like they don’t belong to him. “One of your duties is giving me a bedtime, now?”

Another not-quite sound, meaning lost somewhere along the airwaves, but he thinks there’s a smile with it. He sees it, almost, how it curves around a cigarette. “That depends--how could someone of your remarkable obstinacy possibly be persuaded?”

It’s intentional, now, every bit--the words, the lilt, even the way he goddamn _breathes._ Turning out to be the best mis-dial of his life. “You could try and find out.”

“Oh? Well.” His voice drops. Mikoto’s hand does, too. “In that case…”

Everything’s gone white noise--the wind, the streets, the clubs, the entire restless city, all of it waiting on that pause, that intake of breath, that--

“Good night, Suoh.”

The line goes dead. Smugly, _infuriatingly_ dead.

 

Referencing from chilly-territory’s translations of Case Files of Blue, found here: http://chilly-territory.tumblr.com/post/49525060629/k-stories-index

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	6. things you said after you kissed me - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite short, a little MikoTotsu, heavy on the angst, TW for vague suicidal idealation

_“Isn’t that all there is?”_

He’d said it, thoughtless. Like a lot of things, lately. Only, seeing Munakata’s eyes widen, feeling the grip start to slip--there’s a void somewhere inside, and one thing, just one thing he hasn’t yet done to fill it.

Simple mechanics. Lose the cigarette. Reach up, pull down.

Blue King tastes like cold ash, human enough to be addicting--not right away, maybe, but when you’re gonna die tomorrow it all kicks into high gear. Cold ash, the sour rush of smoke, snow soft over the electric hint of teeth.

_And not like Totsuka would. Not at all._

Thought that too loud--Munakata’s pulling up and hands off completely, like there’s someone around to care. Mikoto takes his time to follow. He still feels his weight. He almost wants to--carry that moment of pressure like he carries that piece of shit sword, right into the grave. Poetic.

“How dare you?” The question shivers, quiet and burning, the way that lean body won’t. “How _dare_ you?”

It’s a valid question. Once, Mikoto would’ve given him every invalid answer flicking through his mind-- _Finally run outta words? Repetition doesn’t suit you, Munakata Reisi. Even criminals get a last meal. Just finishing what you’re too chicken shit to--_ but that’d be like nothing changing, and he’s run out of the cruelty to pretend.

“Didn’t want any regrets.” Already coming apart with them. Then again, his bucket list is beyond fucked up when ‘kissing the enemy king’ sweeps a whole lot of it clean.

Count it as a favor, too. Just took the edge off his sworn duty, the way he’s looking at him now--all fury and disgust and--

( _not that at all_ )

“Barbarian,” he says, and Mikoto slashes out a grin for him, open as a razor. Yeah. That’s it. He’s got a hand on his sword. He’s stepping in. He’s got his fingers in his shirt. He’s--

 _Warm_. Snow soft and melting and too much to hold. He’d drown if it wasn’t for the void, hungry and aching. The void, pulling him in, till there’s nothing left to give.

Funny, how it feels to be alive.

(“Is this enough?” he’ll ask, when they’ve found time for words. His mouth will be flushed, red with promise. _Could I be--?_

A week ago, maybe. Maybe as close as yesterday. Cigarette’s still glowing, smoldering where he dropped it. Despite the snow. Despite the time.

Mikoto grinds it out as he turns.

 _“Go.”_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	7. things you said with no space between us - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a broom closet, cuz some tropes are too good to pass up ;D

The broom closet in Kusanagi Izumo’s apartment had to be the most cliched specimen he’d come upon to date--stiflingly narrow, utterly dark, crammed with various cleaning supplies and, at the moment, two bodies that were certainly pushing the structural limitations of its confines.

Heavy bass rattled the flimsy door. By the drop, Reisi guessed approximately two minutes had passed--which meant there were five more to weather. That is, if the so-called ‘friends’ outside were indeed still keeping track of the time as they’d so assured. God, the alternative was beyond contemplation.

“Oi, quit moving.”

A moment of silence for the lifetime in which he would’ve remained blissfully ignorant of what Suoh Mikoto’s breath felt like across his face--warm, smoke-laced, and somehow whiskey-rich despite this party’s bottom-shelf-bargain-bin liquor selections. Reisi closed his eyes, as if it made any difference whatsoever to the dark. “Forgive me for attempting to negotiate the well-being of my spine against your friend’s terrible storage practices.”

Likely that Kusanagi himself had nothing to do with the various mopheads and dusters looking to realign the natural curvature of his back--probably the jostling of previous victims of this charade, equally disgruntled. But Reisi was hardly in the mood for magnanimity, enough so that it leaked through the cracks in his normally polished tone. To which Suoh snorted out a laugh. Of course, he would.

“Easier ways to ask, y’know.”

Reisi felt the words before he’d actually sorted the meanings out, and by then it was too late for protest. Wood thudded--elbow, probably, judging by the curse--and he was suddenly acutely aware of knuckles dragging over his lower back, skipping straight onto skin where plastic corners had untucked the careful press of his shirt. Callouses. Heat. More fabric pulled out of place as the wrist flicked, and then the whole jumble clattered to the floor. _Loud._

A chorus of whistles from outside. Denial would only encourage them. Reisi was having a hard time with the words, in any case. Odd. “Thank you.”

A beat, then the tone put on a grin he didn’t need eyes for. “No problem.”

He’d lost the track of the music, and the timing with it. At least he knew the others were still paying attention--good, as there were more pressing matters upon which to attend. “You are aware that it’s no longer necessary for your hand to remain in its current position?”

 _Heat._ “Ain’t that the point of the game, Sports Club Council President Munakata Reisi?”

Another moment of silence for the lifetime in which he wouldn’t know the horror that is Suoh Mikoto flirting. And yet another, for the one in which he’d never been made aware of its efficacy. “Were that the case, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed myself to be wrangled into such a situation, Suoh Mikoto whose club’s validity is still in question as he’s not yet turned in the requisite paperwork.”

“Ch, you would bring that up now.” The offending extremity remained in its same exact position. Reisi wanted it to move. He was, however, not exactly clear on the details of where. “Got somewhere better to be?”

“As a matter of fact.” Surely, surely the time limit was drawing close. “Totsuka-san tore me away from a rather competitive round of Cranium.”

“…seriously?”

“Of course.”

“A house party. And you’re playing board games.” Suoh’s eyes, he noticed, were actually visible in the dark, like those of certain feral cats--they crinkled near the edges, belying yet another smirk. “Coulda been worse. Lap Dance Game was on the table for a while.”

He wasn’t even aware that such a thing existed. The mental images were--regrettable. Yes, that. “It seems the birthday boy is rather abusing his privileges.”

“Wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Those eyes drew closer, if such a thing was possible. “Guess I can let it slide.”

There were a number of things to say to that, and no breath with which to say them--every inhale tasted of air that wasn’t quite his own, every exhale a rush murmuring _close close close_.

“We’re almost out of time,” he managed, somehow, lips parched against the ghost or the promise of skin--a pressure too light to tell if it had happened or if it would or--

“Don't care.”

The last minute, Reisi was aware of exactly three things: the taste of Suoh’s entire drinking history that night, his hands traveling considerably lower than they’d any right to, and the fact that he, also, did not care--not when they gripped him like that.

Kusanagi opened the door at some point, and closed it quick as his dulled reflexes would let him. No one dared to try again until well, well after, and Seven Minutes in Heaven was promptly struck from the approved list of party games for the rest of ever. Totsuka smiled and blew out his party horn.

“Never fight the birthday magic, Kusanagi-san~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow


	8. things you said that I wasn't meant to hear - AkiFushi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's the first little drabble that breaks the MikoRei streak xD What can I say, I love the Fushimi rarepairs

Fushimi-san talks in his sleep.

Himori wonders if he knows. Unlikely--these rare nights where they play at intimacy wouldn’t exist, were that the case. Leftover reflex from Defense Force service: sleep-to-wake on a hair trigger. Useful in a combat zone. Fushimi-san’s bed isn’t much different.

(Fushimi-san himself, even.)

Usually the reverse is just as easy--assess the threat, then wrestle back the downtime, if and when possible. Himori’s used to the shift, the kind that goes sudden, violent, whole. Benzai, too. Makes their cohabitation practical; sometimes necessary. Shizume’s not a battleground, but Himori sleeps easier knowing someone else is walking the same edge. They can switch off like clockwork, they’ve done it so long.

These nights always throw them off, though.

Objectively, then, he shouldn’t stay. Not even when Fushimi-san exaggerates those relentlessly pragmatic reasons--the hour, the distance, possible discovery--as if they’re his only ones. Only, Himori is a good soldier. Orders are second nature. And whatever else his superior might layer on top, he reads through. _Stay._

Stay, sleepless and still as the night passes on bullet time. Stay, counting out the minutes on your breath, the tick in your head. Stay, and hear the words that don’t belong to you, the dreams--possibly memories.

Hear the name. Not the only one, but the _one_.

He knows it. Most of them do. He might even understand the edges of it, the wounds they leave. A partner. Benzai, rationing out tonight’s insomnia in endless _suburi_. The scar, flesh blistered under his hand--his mouth, once. Fushimi-san had shoved him off so hard he’d cracked his head against the wall. He’d thought that was the end of it, then. Until the next time.

Hands, only. Like a study in bomb defusal--there are rules, both specific and obscure, and no room for error. Perhaps this is the cusp of another.

The sheets scratch, mutter. A palm lands sleep-heavy on the crook of his arm; long fingers curl and root gently into warmth. Tenderness, another thing that doesn’t belong between them. It’s not his name on the sigh that settles against his neck. Even if it were--

But it is not. He doubts it ever will be. But this now--this is fine. It’s following orders, a necessary release, and above all something he can _give._ The world’s made up of too much taking--he’s seen it enough.

Fushimi-san is warm, body curled in a question. The words keep spilling.

Himori keeps them, tight and close, like all the years have taught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	9. du temps perdu - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mikorei Week 2016, Day 1 - First Time
> 
> More of a character study than any real plot or ship fodder. CanonWealthy!Suoh is a trip. Forgive the pretentiousness ^^;

_‘The first time, ever I saw your face.’_

Memory’s cluttered up with sense. Scent, touch, an old song or place. Kaasan’s got it down in a shelf full of novels. Mikoto remembers the color of the spines, titles in Western letters. English, not-English, then _kanji_ above his grade. Same sets, side-by-side.

She reads them often. He thinks--maybe--she used to read them to him. He never listened very closely, but Kaasan’s voice was--

_Gone._

Spring or summer. Afternoon light. This first house is like living in a pillbox--white walls and glass walls and windows at each turn. He breaks a lot of things here, at the start; this house teaches him to be still. He’s never punished, but--

_Go to your room now, darling._

Too grand for an elementary-school kid. The desk is warm, blonde wood and his feet don’t touch the floor. The radio is playing a song in English--that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. Listening. Writing. His paper is blank, and outside it’s spring or summer.

The tape catches. Restarts.

_‘The first time…’_

Kaasan’s favorite kind of song. Doesn’t let her know he can spell it out by heart; she’ll find something new, something that won’t let him glare through the light, stare down the garden wall.

Spring or summer. Otousan wanted the landscaping done. Laughs kindly when he asks to do it, sends him back upstairs.

_You’re meant for greater things._

The men in the garden don’t laugh. Their boss spares a smile, now and then, for his son. Gangly, teenaged, hauling gravel on his shoulders, work gloves rubbed dark with dirt. He laughs. His father smiles. The kind of man who might, if Mikoto asks--

But there’s already one boy in the garden.

_‘…ever I saw…’_

Doesn’t feel like a shock, so he’s been there before--fits, where Mikoto doesn’t. Even in the clothes neater than his, though of poorer cut. A worn backpack. _Bento_ balanced in his hands, a towering stack that doesn’t tumble on account of that walk. Steady, like what the etiquette teacher’s been trying to force on him.

The boss smiles, again. Their hair is the same kind of dark.

 _Been here before, I know._ Too familiar, what happens next--the suppers passed around, gloves coming off. A hand on a shoulder, the other on a branch, a leaf, stone and timber. The eldest waving wildly at roots and sand. Patterns and lessons drawn on air.

And through it all, that dark head just nods.

Mikoto can’t make out expressions. Only so much to see, through glass, through light. But the room is hot, tight as a fist with wanting. Wanting _out_. Wanting _that_.

Wanting--

_‘…your face…’_

\--turned up, there, to the window--and for a moment it’s just his reflection--pale skin, curious eyes.

But that gaze is cool, careful. And Mikoto’s--

_Burns._

The tape catches and--

 

 

_“The first time, ever I saw your face.”_

Totsuka’s feeding _yen_ into the jukebox. It’s the clatter that wakes him up.

“Good nap, King?” Done nothing but open his eyes; still, Totsuka has that annoying sixth sense for him. The song croons on in the background.

He still knows it by heart.

“ _Celine Dion_ ,” Totsuka butchers with a smile. “A friend of mine was clearing out his music collections. Kusanagi-san will like it, don’t you think? Fits his ‘atmosphere’.”

He does a passable Izumo, winking over an imaginary glass. Mikoto sits up, swings his legs to the floor. Solid. He’s left that room--but not the heat, coiling in him like a sickness. “‘M going out.”

“Ah?”

“Later.”

Outside, the city swims in summer. He walks the same paths through hazy streets, watches the sun bleach the world to bone. He walks till he finds an abandoned park, an abandoned fountain, an abandoned bench.

The dream or memory bleeds into wasteland, the familiar image burning away on a lit cigarette, until--

_“It is hot today, is it not?”_

And this time, he remembers--those eyes meeting his own.

 

 

_“The karma binding red and blue does exist, after all.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from chilly-territory’s translations of K R:B, found here:[ http://chilly-territory.tumblr.com/post/49525060629/k-stories-index](http://chilly-territory.tumblr.com/post/49525060629/k-stories-index)
> 
> tumblr: [darksylvir](http://darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow :)


	10. and they lived - Mikorei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This year's Valentine drabble--the universe in which everyone's an actor and nothing hurts :D

The hand slips off his shoulder, and the weight of it undoes him in one final pull. He’s down, then--down on his knees in the snow. Only this could ever make him kneel--only to this. The wind shears across. Cold. His hands have left the sword. His hands have found where he cannot quite look, but he must--it is his duty--one last--

“Nope, not working, CUT!”

Reisi tips his head up and starts a slow count backwards from 10. The light snow blurs over his vision--that, or the long hours of not wearing his glasses have started to take a more permanent toll. There was supposed to be a stipulation about that in his contract. In the distance, Izumo-san complains for all of them.

“Over ten takes of this again, really? There’s more than enough to--”

“Hey, you don’t like it, you don’t even have to be here--you’re off the island, remember? Go look cool and tragic over there.” Director-san scowls down the playback. “Yep, like I thought, too over-the-top, not in the Academy-way either. And all the damn snow--”

“Tell me Anna’s not in hearing range,” Mikoto mutters, somewhere south of his breastbone. Reisi glances down.

“Were you truly worried about uncouth influences, you might take a firmer stand against her insistence upon shadowing you on every shoot.” Regardless, he scans the milling crew until he finds their prodigy--ah, there, a respectable distance away and insulated against both chill and crassness by an enormous pair of earmuffs that he recognizes as Seri’s. Bless that woman. “Fear not, however, measures have been taken.” His gaze falls again to the ungainly sprawl in his lap. “You could stand to see for yourself.”

The dead-weight chuckles. “Nah, I’m good.”

He cannot quite help the smile, but his dignity is mollified by the fact the other cannot see it. “Such laziness continues to astound.”

“Maybe I just like it down here.”

Any half-decent actor knows the importance of line delivery and, much as it pains him to admit, his co-star is leagues above merely decent. Suffice to say, then, he is well-aware of the effects of certain choices in emphasis. It is a long-winter February, and Reisi is suddenly _quite_ warm.

“Oi, lovebirds, break it up!” Director-san waves a rolled-up script at them like it’s a spell ward. “Yeah, you ain’t slick--Effects! Get over there, and someone please get us some fresh snow, it’s only _everywhere_.”

This Mikoto moves for, and Reisi shakes his head at the rare show of professionalism. His co-star nevertheless grins over as the prop crew pushes between them--but Reisi’s illustrious history of acting coaches would have him drawn-and-quartered if he couldn’t suppress something as simple as the responding flush. Granted, however, they never prepared him for working across someone like Mikoto. Even after all this time.

“Come on, people, we’ve only done this like fifteen times, should be a routine by now, _routine--_ no, you’ve got the sword crooked, I can see it from here, Christ--there, finally.” The extra bodies scatter at the word. “Look, I don’t wanna be here this long either, it’s Valentine’s and I got shit to do and I know at least a quarter of you do too--but if I’m stuck in the doghouse, y’all are stuck there with me, let’s go.”

There is still a split-second of hesitation, as he wraps his hands around the hilt. For one, their effects team is quite talented--it feels real, warm and worn to the distinctions in his grip. Even as Mikoto’s hand settle into the familiar place at his shoulder, as he braces to accommodate the familiar weight. Even as he hears his heartbeat make itself known in reassuring rhythm.

Director-san leans out from behind the camera. “I want tears from this. Actual tears. Pull out that pain, you two, make it worth the stupid amount the studio’s paying you--and-- _action_.”

Push. The hand slips--red spills against white. Mikoto drops quicker than he can, this time--he has to let go of the hilt or risk wrenching it out of place. No matter, they’ve both improvised before. He’s about the follow, when the limp fingers suddenly catch against his own. _Wait._

“Hey.” A different angle, this--but the script was rather bare for this particular scene. Maybe the Red King would cling to a few more moments. “Reisi. One--last thing.”

Maybe in these precious seconds, all that decorum would come to naught. Maybe the Blue King would look down, try to hold fiercely to what he no longer can. He feels his hand spasm into a trembling grip. “What would you have from me now?”

 _Too many words._ Time for Mikoto to clutch at that terrible wound, as if trying to claw the life back within him. He almost looks away, but--

There is something glittering in all that red.

Something as gold as the eyes that suddenly implore his own.

“How about a lifetime?”

* * *

_“So, you two are gonna play our Kings.” The Director leans back in his chair, flipping through the script too quickly to be reading it. A standard show of power. “Super-powered leaders of two rival clans. Enemies, for all intents and purposes.”_

_Reisi chances another sideways glance at the man who will be share his lead, an individual who--like their esteemed director--has not once sat up properly since the start of this meeting. “I can assure you that will not be an issue.”_

_He does not bristle, which garners some respect. He does, however, smirk in a way that extinguishes any budding hope for a strictly professional relationship. The Director does not seem to notice. “Counting on it. For once, Casting did a decent job. Reisi, you’ll be our Blue King--put all those overseas theatre chops to work. I’ve seen you in action before, so I know it won’t be a reach. As for you.” In one sweeping look, he takes in every single mannerism that should have excluded all offers for professional work and grins. “Red King is right up your alley.”_

_Wonderful. He is about to recycle a trusty excuse for dismissal when the script abruptly lands on the table. The Director whirls his chair around to face the picture window, signaling they’re about to be privy to one of ‘those’ speeches. Reisi swallows a sigh, and waits._

_“What I want, though, is chemistry. Chemistry is what’s gonna move this, not just two rivals butting heads.” A hand shoots into the air. “I need defiance, duty, rebellion, resignation--the only two people in the world who understand each other, who can’t stand it--but **need** it. Need it like I need to feel **karmic bonds**. Got that?” He spins back around, fixes them both in his sights. “That is what I want assurance on.”_

_Logically, such a claim would be impossible. Reisi is of the mind to say exactly that, only whatever thoughts he’d had lined up vanish in the wake of one simple phrase._

_“No problem.”_

_Throughout his experience, Reisi has stumbled upon but a handful of voices that could spark down into the hindbrain and seize. That one should belong to someone with a face like his co-star’s is surely some kind of violation of natural law. The Director, again, doesn’t seem to notice. “Don’t think I won’t hold you to it, rookie.”_

_A few more trivialities are discussed before they are let go. Outside the office, Reisi resigns himself to the inevitable professional niceties and offers his hand. “I look forward to working with you on this project, Mikoto-san.”_

_The casual choice in address is another test--he cannot help himself. The industry is glutted by too many who believe the leap from idol to actor is a mere shift in titles. Reisi does not consider himself as much a purist as others in his profession, but he understands from where they draw their disdain. A lack of respect, a dearth of professionalism and an irreverence for effort. And yet, he hopes that, perhaps, this one may surprise him._

_The grip that locks with his is firm, despite the lazy set of his shoulders, and amber eyes meets his gaze head-on. “Got a lot to learn.” He was wrong; he is glad of it. “Guess I’m in your care, M— Reisi.”_

* * *

“Reisi?”

Even under the stage blood, the ring twinkles. Reisi does not know where he finds the air to answer, but it comes in time.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” The pieces click into place--the repetition, the namedrop of the particular day, the odd surplus of actors for a two-person scene. “You utter--”

He does not know what he would’ve said, because Mikoto has been waiting far longer than he would have given him credit for--his lips are chapped from the cold, but the heat sings through regardless as the prop-hilt digs into his chest. Who cares. Certainly a little pain is worth it.

Dimly he’s aware of the crowd around them, of Anna clinging to their waists and Seri’s hands on his shoulders. Izumo-san’s cursing at a frozen champagne bottle, and Mikoto’s teeth knock against his as someone nearly spears themselves on the blade.

“Misa _ki_.” Well, even Saruhiko. The convincing that must have taken.

“Worth it,” Mikoto says, in that inscrutable way of his. His voice is raw and breathless in his mouth, and Reisi wants to hold the taste of it forever.

“Alright, that’s a wrap--got the whole thing, 360 degrees.” A pause. “I said _alright_ already!”

He cannot begrudge Director-san his job--not when, in some way, he is the reason any of this is happening in the first place. Their well-wishers fall away to make room for the crew, and he finds he is somehow wearing that golden band, though he can’t quite remember when it was slipped on. Across bent heads and busy hands, Mikoto winks.

There are promises in it.

“So y’all remember this the next time you start throwing around that whole ‘heartless slave-driver’ shtick.” Director-san fiddles with the camera. “Alright, let’s try and get this done in one more take-- _hey_ , don’t start your groaning. I said I ain’t heartless, nothing about the other bit. Ready, and-- _action_.”

They need five more takes to get it right, what with the actual tears he’d requested being unpredictable in their occurrence. When they watch the final cut, months later, they find most of it edited down quite severely. The Director’s Commentary offers a succinct reason. “You try to get the newly-engaged to take off their rings. Let me know how that goes for ya.”

A touch unprofessional, perhaps, but--Reisi smiles down at his hand.

_Well, that is the trade-off for chemistry, I suppose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [darksylvir](darksylvir.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feel free to follow! :)


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